


Oh, the birds

by elareine, Leyan



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Art, Childhood Sweethearts, Courting Rituals, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Growing Apart, Inspired by Art, Moral Dilemmas, Mutual Pining, Parenthood, Relationship Problems, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26168293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elareine/pseuds/elareine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyan/pseuds/Leyan
Summary: Eight gifts that were given in the course of Nerdanel and Fëanor's relationship, from their first meeting to long after their last.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel, Nerdanel & Sons of Fëanor
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	Oh, the birds

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Tolkien Big Bang, where I had the honor of both receiving the [art that's inspired this story](https://imgur.com/gallery/KmnKD8e) and leyan's amazing input. 
> 
> Detailed warnings: A brief instance of body shaming by OCs. Mention of a canon suicide.

_One_

At first, Curufinwë did not notice Mahtan’s daughter. She had been introduced to him the day he came to live in the smith’s household—a tall, freckled figure unexceptional of feature and conversation—and had not made much of an impression. He was here to learn, after all, and he threw himself into the craft with the passion he was becoming known for.

The forge, he thought, was a magical place. Apply the right temperature, the right mixture of metals, and you could make a deadly sword as soon as the most beautiful jewelry. Even as he learned and improved at a rapid pace, there was always more to discover, more to create, more to perfect. Curufinwë did not think he would ever tire of shaping the world in a fire.

Still, there was a restlessness in his heart. Mahtan seemed to see it and take it with good humor—“Out with you, boy. One should not spend all day inside.” This was a vast improvement over his previous masters, who had scolded him about being distracted right up until the day he surpassed them at their craft.

So Curufinwë traveled. Never far, never too long, but he roamed the lands, alone.

Until the day he stopped in a clearing and wasn’t.

“Curufinwë?” a voice asked.

He whirled around. At the foot of a tree, almost hidden by the tall grass, sat a young woman with short hair and waved at him.

It genuinely took him a second to remember her name. “…Nerdanel? What are you doing here?”

“I’m watching the birds,” she said, pointing to a nest in a tree on the other side of the clearing. “The chicks hatched this morning. You?”

“I… brought a picnic.” Curufinwë had rarely felt so foolish as the moment he lifted his small bag.

“Funny. So have I.” She hesitated, then suggested with studied carelessness: “I suppose we could eat together.”

Truthfully, it was not a prospect Curufinwë cherished. These days of roaming were his way of recharging, of forgetting the people around him and relishing his own company. However, it would not do to insult his current master’s daughter like that. “Of course.”

After a moment of hesitation, he sat down on the ground beside her. The top of his head was just about coming to her shoulder. He was still growing, he reminded himself. Still. It wasn’t a bad feeling.

Her eyes were amused, but she didn’t say anything, just opened her own travel package and silently offered him a piece of bread. He reciprocated with some berries, and they ate in silence until Curufinwë couldn’t take it anymore.

“So. You like working in the forge?” he asked. It was a safe opening gambit if a boring one. She was the smith’s daughter, after all. Of course she liked working in the forge.

“It’s alright, I guess.”

“It’s _alright?_ ” Curufinwë’s voice was incredulous.

Nerdanel shrugged. “Yes. I prefer sculpture, I think.”

“That’s boring.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Just because there’s no fire.” She rolled her eyes. “Boys.”

That was perilously close to what Curufinwë had, in fact, been thinking, so he shut up.

They sat in silence. It was awkward, even if Nerdanel did not seem to think so; her face was calm as she watched the birds.

“…are you any good at it?”

She chewed her lip. “I think so. I mean, how do you know you are good at something? I have so much to learn, and yet I like what I can make already.”

“I know I am good at something because I can see the quality of my work, and the speed in which I improve,” Curufinwë told her.

Nerdanel nodded and slid a hand into the bag she kept by her side. “…you judge, then.”

With that, she plopped an object into his lap. It was small and grey and heavy, and yet Curufinwë immediately recognized the very bird species they were watching. He lifted it up to study more closely. There were some mistakes—the beak was a bit too small, the pattern on the feet not the most detailed he had ever seen, the feathers a bit too regular to be life-like—and yet…

The bird Nerdanel made looked like it was ready to take flight, to soar into the skies with a happy melody and not a care in the world.

“You are good.”

She looked at him for a long moment as if expecting him to add a ‘but.’ However, Curufinwë held her gaze, earnest in his appreciation. He might not know sculpture, but he knew life. And this was it.

Slowly, she smiled. “Thank you.”

Curufinwë… wasn’t opposed to that expression on her face at all. “Uh… anytime.” Realizing he was still holding the bird, he offered it to her. “Oh. Here.”

“You can keep it,” she said.

“I couldn’t—”

“I want you to have it if you like it.”

“I do,” Curufinwë admitted, now presented with a new conundrum. A gift, he knew, must always be returned with another gift, even if it had been given out of carelessness.

He searched in his pockets. There must be something—anything—ah. A soft _clink_. His first armband. A little thick for a woman, maybe, but a beautiful color. He thought she would appreciate that.

“Here.” He dropped the ornament in her lap unceremoniously.

“A wristband?” she asked.

“You can hit that with your chisel and hammer, and it won’t break,” he said. “When you sculpt. It’s difficult on the wrists when you do it a lot, I heard.”

She looked much more touched than the gift warranted. “Thanks. It’s what I want to do. I don’t like forging.” Her face screwed up. “Please don’t tell Father I said that.”

Oh. Curufinwë was taken aback not so much by her choice, as by her decision to tell _him_ , of all people.

He’d never been a secret-keeper before. It was a nice feeling.

“I won’t.”

She smiled again. “Thank you.”

After that, they watched the birds in silence. It was not awkward at all.

_Two_

The clearing became their place. Somewhere to meet up, far away from the forge, from their families and expectations and the gaze of others; somewhere to talk; somewhere to be silent.

Lately, it hadn’t been just nature Nerdanel was watching. Curufinwë had a way of drawing everyone’s gaze. She had thought herself immune—it was hard to be awed by someone you had seen your father yell at countless times. It was different when they were like this, though.

She liked that he wore his hair open around her. No braids. It suited him, his harsh features softened by the silky strands.

(Not that she knew what they felt like in her hands. It was pure speculation, born out of fruitless daydreams.)

The sound of grass moving distracted her. She laughed in delight when she saw what caused it: an entire flock of birds, _their_ birds, taking flight. “Look!” she pointed to them. “Aren’t they delightful?”

“Yes,” he agreed softly.

“Flying must be so wonderful.”

“Do you wish to have wings?” he asked, tone amused. “Fly with the eagles, perhaps?”

“No, but doesn’t it look fun? A small thing, steering in the wind… free and yet bound by it.” Nerdanel smiled, and their eyes met. There was something in Curufinwë’s—a sharp flash, a glint she had only seen in the forge before. Then it was gone, and he sighed. “I think it’s time to go home.”

“I suppose…” They usually stuck around longer than this, but Nerdanel wasn’t about to object. She sprang nimbly to her feet, instead, and offered him a hand without thinking. He took it, and she hauled him up—not that there was very much to haul. He was slender, especially in comparison to her.

That had to be the reason why she overcompensated for his weight, causing him to stumble into her and holding onto her shoulder in surprise.

Curufinwë visibly froze. “Uh—”

The only thing she could think to say to that was an equally inane little laugh, followed by: “Hey, my eyes are up here.”

His eyes grew wide, and he let go of her hand like she was burning. “Oh! Oh, no, I wasn’t—”

“Sure you weren’t,” she chuckled.

His chin lifted, defiant. “I wasn’t.”

And now she felt bad. Teasing wasn’t his thing, she knew. “I know. Let’s go.”

Though he grumbled about her indecent sense of humor for another few minutes, the walk home was mostly spent in companionable silence. Once there, he did not accompany her to her father’s rooms as usual; instead, he stopped by the little hut that served as a storage room for the tools that weren’t essential to her father’s trade.

“I, uh. Have something to work on.”

“So do I,” Nerdanel said hastily. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the forge, yes?”

He smiled. “Where else would I be?”

Where, indeed? After all, he only had a family to return to and a people to lead. Another thing Nerdanel was trying not to think about. She just had this… feeling about him. Like he was destined to do great things, and she was going to watch him do them from afar.

_That’s silly talk_ , she told herself. _You are like a lovesick youngling, mooning over the first boy she meets._

…Curufinwë wasn’t the first boy she met, though. Just the first one who really _saw_ her. Who listened. Who was interesting, and sharp, and not at all boring. And if she were a calf, would she really be here, working on her gift when she could be with him, instead? No, she wouldn’t be. So it was fine. It was all fine.

And it really was, once she started working on her piece again. Sculpting tended to do that for Nerdanel. All her senses became focused on her subject, the life that was slowly emerging from cold, hard stone.

She was slowly taking shape under Nerdanel’s hands. Her face—inspired by all these tapestries and paintings and songs about a _Queen_ —was that of a mother. The one Curufinwë still didn’t allow himself to miss.

Well, once Nerdanel was done with this, he would have no choice but to talk about it. To her, or to the statue of his mother, Nerdanel didn’t know; it didn’t matter. Sadness, when left unattended, could turn violent. She would not let that happen to Curufinwë.

(Nerdanel talked to her at night. About her son. Her husband. About life, and all she was missing. Maybe it was Nerdanel’s imagination, but the stone seemed to look back sometimes.)

Daylight dawned before she was aware of it. That, in itself, was not unusual. She hardly noticed her father coming in until he told her fondly to “Move around a bit, girl, or you’ll turn into one of your statues.”

He always gave good advice, so she did. And groaned. Even elven limbs felt stiff after such a night. Still, she thought, critically examining the statue in front of her, she was happy with the progress she made. Another fortnight and she might be ready. The head was taking shape nicely, after all. Though there was something about Miíriel’s right ear that didn’t look quite right yet…

By the time Curufinwë found her, it was midday.

“Hey, Nerdanel!” he yelled, heedless of the glare of her father or the fact that the distance between them hardly warranted yelling. Anyway, she was already turning toward him, smiling.

“Look what I made.” He shoved his hands at her, and she was expecting jewelry, maybe; his first dagger to be deemed good enough, perhaps.

Instead, it was a toy.

Nerdanel swallowed.

She knew this boy-growing-to-be-a-man. She _knew_ his pride, his refusal to be a failure at anything he touched; his dismissal of those he deemed childish; the pressure of being a prince.

And yet, he had made her a toy. A little wonky, with bright colors and playful tails. Something to bring joy. Something to bring _her_ joy.

A grin grew on her face, bright and unstoppable. “Yes,” she said, “let us go fly!”

Later—after an hour of laughter, an hour of trying to steer their ‘kites’ (Curufinwë’s name for them) in a way that they would not tangle, an hour of failing miserably and loving it—Nerdanel turned to Curufinwë and said: “Thank you.”

His hand made a dismissive gesture and he turned away, but she knew there was more to come, so she waited him out.

“I.” He cleared his throat, determinedly looking at the kites. “I was hoping it could be the first of many.”

“The first of—oh.” Nerdanel could feel heat spread across her cheeks and nose. “You mean—”

“Yes.” A pause. “If you are willing, of course.”

Of course she was. Curufinwë must be dumber than she’d thought if he thought there was any question about that.

However—

“Give me a week,” she forced herself to say. “And I will show you my answer.”

For a moment, he looked unsure, so she added: “You… were quicker in fashioning your courting gift. You must allow me to catch up.”

His brows rose, a sarcastic, elegant arch, and he murmured: “Is that so?”

“It is.” She did her best to imitate him at his haughtiest but knew she had failed by the smile that was on both their faces now.

“Then I can wait,” he told her and took her hand in his. His skin was just as warm and golden next to hers as she remembered.

_Three_

It was his wedding day, and Curufinwë was convinced no husband-to-be had ever been luckier. He insisted on showing that with a grand feast. Nerdanel, he knew, would have been happy with a small ceremony. For once in their lives, however, Curufinwë wanted to show her off, so he sent out invitations far and wide.

And the people had come. Their families, their friends, their teachers, dignitaries from far and wide, even representatives of the Maia and the Valar had come to the wedding of Curufinwë and Nerdanel.

_Everyone_ wanted to be there.

At the thought, his mouth thinned. His father had decided to bring _her_ to this feast—to _Curufinwë’s_ feast. He hadn’t even asked; had only announced that as she was his wife, it was only natural for her to come.

“How dares he?” Curufinwë had asked Nerdanel when he received the letter, half enraged exclamation, half genuine question.

As always, Nerdanel replied to the latter. “He hopes that having her here, on this day, will remind you that he is, after all, only seeking the same happiness you are.”

“It’s not the same, though,” he insisted. “He has a wife already.”

“Is that how you think of her?” Nerdanel asked as if she didn’t know.

“I know that she will now come back,” he reassured her. “Not now.”

“Not before, either.”

“That does not change the fact that he should have waited. If I should ever, through some evil mind or foolishness—and rest assured that I know both of these would have to be on my side—” he interjected, just to make her smile, “if I should ever, for any reason, lose you, I would not move on to the next woman and dishonor you that way.”

“No,” she agreed. “You won’t.”

Sometimes, when she spoke, she had a distant look in her eyes, as if she was seeing him and not. Or maybe him, and another-him, and another-him.

Curufinwë decided not to dwell on these thoughts. Today, he chose to be happy, mingling with the guests until it was time to find his bride and exchange vows. It was a pleasant morning, full of light conversation and congratulations.

And then he heard:

“She must be part dwarf.”

“What, with that height?”

“How else do you explain—”

Curufinwë had heard quite enough. He stepped out of the shadows.

The two elves turned around. “Ah, Lord Curufinwë—”

Whatever they saw on his face, it made them recoil.

“Leave.” His voice was quiet.

“We didn’t mean, I mean—”

“I said: Leave. You are not welcome here on this day.” Curufinwë did not care that he was offending two potentially influential persons. All he knew is that they were insulting Nerdanel on their wedding day, and he would not stand for it.

It was very satisfying to watch them gather their robes and leave without another word, visibly embarrassed. Still, it felt like not enough. How dare they be so superficial? How dare they sully the good name of Nerdanel’s family, disparage her looks and her parentage at the same time?

Suddenly, he needed to see her. She always knew what to say to calm the raging flame in his heart.

It was lucky, then, that he knew just where to find her. Tradition asked that the bride waited with her father, after all. When Curufinwë knocked on the door of her chamber, Mahtan opened the door, took one look at him, and told him: “Alright. I’ll be outside.”

Curufinwë nodded at his father-in-law and former master. And then, there she was.

“Curufinwë?”

“Just… wanted to see you,” he explained inanely, busy taking her in. Nerdanel was dressed in a white so cool, it was almost silver. Her pale skin glowed and her hair was redder than a flame. His gaze fell to the skin of her throat, unadorned, the swell of her breasts just visible under the shirt.

Someday, he vowed to himself, he would forge stones so precious as to be worthy of her. Stones that captured the light in her eyes when she smiled at him, that radiated the same warmth, the same beauty.

Hey,” she chuckled, that throaty sound that he adored, “my eyes are up here.”

“Oh,” and he allowed himself a grin, “I know.”

She laughed. It was the best gift she could've given him.

He could see the woman she was becoming. Someone who was sure of herself, who trusted her hands, her vision, her heart, where before she had only followed her mind.

She was formidable, his Nerdanel. Those fools had no idea what they were talking about. Give her time, and they would all come to love her.

Well, too bad. Because he had been there first, and he did not intend to ever let go.

_Four_

“Macalaurë. Please take the flute out of your nose.”

Some days, Nerdanel wanted to scream. It was not very lady-like of her, but—how had he even managed to get the instrument up there? He was no young child anymore!

…impressing one of his younger brothers, no doubt.

Curufinwë sometimes asked her why she did not delegate more of the childrearing to the servants. It frustrated her, even as she tried to be patient. What must his upbringing have been like that he believed motherhood could just be passed on to others, distributed in little parcels when convenient? No, their children might be princes, but Nerdanel refused to be anything but their mother.

(Still, she acknowledged, she was lucky—luckier than most—to receive aid in cleaning and cooking. If she’d had to deal with that, she might feel different.)

There was a gentle hand on her back.

“Curufinwë?” she asked, turning around. “You are back early.”

He smiled up at her. “I have finished something, and couldn’t wait to show you. Come with me for a second?”

She cast a look around. Everything seemed quiet… for now. “Nelya, can you watch over your siblings for me?”

Her eldest looked up from the bug he was reading, spread out on the rug in front of the fire. “Of course.”

“Thank you.” Nerdanel smiled, grateful. She tried not to rely on her eldest too much—he deserved a childhood as much as the others. It turned out to be impossible, however, to _stop_ him from helping her.

“Oh, but I’m meeting… friends later.” Nelya’s discreet glance at his father told Nerdanel exactly who it was her son was meeting up with. Not that she minded—it was good for cousins to grow up close, and no one mother could ask for a better friend for her son—but… Curufinwë was touchy about that subject. They all indulged him by pretending the other branch of his family didn’t exist.

And for now, he seemed to buy it, turning his smile to his son. “It won’t take long.”

True to his promise, Curufinwë stopped her as soon as they were outside and out of sight from the window. Nerdanel took a moment to breathe in the fresh air. Then she turned to her husband expectantly.

He presented a box to her. There was a necklace, a golden circlet made of flowers and a mass of golden rings, jingling and jangling when Nerdanel’s hand moved.

For a moment, she was at a loss. Curufinwë had never fashioned fancy jewelry for her, not even on their wedding day. She didn’t know what to do with it now.

Then she noted the small flowers carved into the necklace. Violets.

“She is almost finished, isn’t she?” Curufinwë asked softly.

Nerdanel could feel a smile take over her face until she was beaming, telling him: “She is now.”

He grinned back at her, sharing as always her exaltation at creation. “May I see?”

“Always.”

Together, they walked to her room—not the one she slept in, no, that was _their_ room. This room, where she sculpted with a view of the meadow, was _hers_ just as the forge was _his_.

There she was. Nessa. Nerdanel had seen her dance at her wedding and had been so deeply impressed that she just had to try to capture the moment. It had taken her close to a year, but she thought she’d come close.

Nessa was balanced on only one foot, on the tip of her toes as if about to leap into the air in a pirouette. Her hands were stretched into the air, hands graceful, fingers performing their own dance. It was movement made stone.

And now, the Vala would have her jewelry.

Nerdanel began with the necklace. It settled perfectly, at just the right height. When it came to the bracelets, she discovered that rather than requiring the wearer’s fingers to press together (a difficult feat for a statue), they opened. After snapping them close around Nessa’s wrists, one after another, they looked like just the Vala’s bracelets, the closing mechanism invisible.

Sometimes Nerdanel loved being married to a genius.

The flower crown came on last. Nerdanel took a step back, admiring the result. Yes. She had done well this time. They both had.

Curufinwë looked awed, even after all these years. “She’s beautiful, love,” he said and Nerdanel could not help kissing him.

Because this was her husband, the one she loved enough to ignore the disturbing visions that sometimes visited her; enough that she trusted him not to go down that path; the husband she desired enough to let into her bed even after seven sons; the one she had chosen to spend her life with.

Curufinwë kissed her back with an equal amount of passion, pulling her closer, always closer—

“Moooother! Curufinwë destroyed my castle!”

They jumped apart. Curufinwë scowled, Nerdanel laughed, and soon they were both chuckling.

“I suppose,” Curufinwë finally admitted, “more than fifteen minutes was too much to hope for.”

He gave her one more kiss, and she returned the gesture by pressing one to the tip of his nose; something she would’ve never done in front of others. It still made him blush, after all.

“Mother!”

Life was calling. Nerdanel returned to her sons with a spring in her step.

_Five_

Curufinwë was at the forge, and he did not hear or see anything else.

This was it. He could feel it in his bones. With the knowledge he’d gleaned—with what he’d done to get here—he was finally, finally close to the vision in his head.

“Curufinwë?”

Nerdanel was at the door. He spared her a brief smile, but his concentration was still on his work. “I have to finish this, love.”

She might’ve said something. After what could’ve been seconds or minutes or hours, he saw her place something on the table by the door and leave.

(Later, he would find some bread, a few berries and a bunch of flowers there.)

It was alright. Curufinwë did not worry about Nerdanel. Soon, she would see, and then she would understand.

Soon.

_Six_

Nerdanel looked at the fortress and shuddered. It was not her first time visiting, nor would it be her last.

It never looked like home to her.

“Mother!”

“Macalaurë.” Nerdanel pulled her son into an embrace and was happy to feel it returned instantly. She worried, sometimes. The boys were spending a lot of time cooped up with their father. “How are you?”

“We are alright, as I keep writing to you.” His voice was gently chiding. “Come in. The others will be so happy to see you.”

She did not see Curufinwë until the sun had set and risen again. Even then, she had to go seek him out in his forge.

“Nerdanel,” he greeted her as she entered, putting the sword he was working on aside, and she smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

He returned the kiss, and for a moment, as they stood there, it was as if these were still the early days of their marriage. Nerdanel had missed this closeness more than she’d admitted to anyone, even herself. Having it now was what gave her the courage to slide a hand into her satchel and take out a small figure.

“I brought you something.”

The miniature of their house was perfect down to the smallest detail, Nerdanel knew. She had spent hours pouring over it, and it showed.

She did not usually portray inanimate objects, but this house was so much more than a building to her. It represented a state of being she dearly missed; the happy years they had spent there; her hopes for the future.

Curufinwë took one glance at it and set it aside. “Thank you.” Then he returned to his project.

Now, Nerdanel was a patient person. Had to be; with her husband and her children and the family she had married into. That did not mean she was any less strong-willed, however, and she took as much pride in her work as he did. She was just slower to be roused.

At that moment, she discovered that she could be angry. “So you dismiss me as if I am nothing?”

“Is a husband obligated to show gratefulness to his wife for the smallest scraps?”

_The smallest scraps._

“Look at me,” she demanded.

When he didn’t, she shook his shoulder. “Look at me, and tell me that me coming here—that me giving you this—are _scraps_.”

Curufinwë did not turn around. “What else do you call them?”

_Love_ , she wanted to say. If only she could know that he would understand.

She looked at his back. The muscles under his shirt were tense. He was standing so straight, it almost hurt to look at. His hair was tied up in braids, elaborate and regal and utterly foreign on the man she married.

He looked vulnerable. All of a sudden, she felt her anger leave her.

“Oh, Curufinwë,” she said gently. “What are you doing to yourself?”

She did not mean to sound like she pitied him. However, that was the only explanation she could find for the rage in his eyes when he whirled around. “What am I doing to _myself_?”

“You are—” isolating yourself, she wanted to say. Withdrawing. Growing cold.

He would not let her speak, though. “I didn’t _choose_ to be here! How can you say that, after everything they did?”

(They—the Valar? His family? The one who betrayed him? She wondered.)

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“I don’t believe you,” he spat. “If you _understood_ , you would be here with us, preparing for what needs to happen.” He paused. “But what I did expect from you. You were always in their pocket, weren’t you?”

He sounded so sure of himself. Like there was no advice she could give him, no words she could speak that would make him listen.

So that was it, then. Nerdanel felt something in her grow cold. A door was closing.

Curufinwë must’ve seen it in her face, for he said: “I suppose you will leave again.”

“Yes. Tomorrow.” She could not stand this barren land. There was no beauty here, no home. Perhaps, if her husband wasn’t acting like—but that was foolish to dwell on. Curufinwë always acted exactly like he wanted to.

“The boys will miss you.” Curufinwë’s tone was conciliatory now.

Nerdanel’s was not. “That’s why I will keep coming back.”

She did. However, she never brought Curufinwë another gift.

_Seven_

They had taken the oath. Fëanor felt a rush whenever he thought about it. He had stood up for what was right, and everyone— _everyone_ —had stood up and sworn with him. He had never been so proud of his sons as in that moment, as they swore to follow him into death or glory.

Their cause was just. The Valar could not see that, but Fëanor had long since ceased to consider their opinion important. They, and those that stood with them—including his faithless wife—had chosen their comfortable existence in bondage. Fëanor had no use for them.

He observed his packs critically. Most of them would be picked up by servants in due course. Only the things he considered too valuable to entrust to anyone would be carried by him, his sword foremost among them. His clothes were practicable, able to withstand everything the world would throw at them, but expensive enough to reflect his status.

Fëanor nodded to himself and got up. Everything was ready.

Something fell out of the cloak.

For a moment, Fëanor considered leaving it behind. Of what importance could it be, after all? What beauty would ever compare to the one he created, and fought for, and lost?

Even in his single-mindedness, however, the curiosity that had brought him to this corner of his world when he was little more than a youngling would not let go such a thing go unchecked. So he turned around and bent down—and froze.

It was a bird. It was one of Nerdanel’s, there was no mistaking that. She had discovered this particular sort of blue stone some time ago, and many of her sculptures had been fashioned from them.

It was also one of _theirs_. The blue birds in that clearing, all those centuries ago—suddenly, Fëanor saw them so clearly.

This statue—it was so much more perfectly crafted than the one she had given him in the shadow of that tree. Its eyes were staring straight at him, its beak was proportional and yet imperfect enough to be real, every feather ready to take flight. And yet he ached for that single, irreplaceable attempt at making art, the one that had opened his eyes to her, the one that he had lost… he didn’t know. Years ago. He couldn’t remember where or when. Right now, that felt like the biggest failure of them all.

His hand closed around the bird. For a moment, he was tempted to throw down the cloak; to return to her, to beg forgiveness, to return to a path he had once seen so clearly.

He knew she would not have him.

And he mourned, then, as he had rarely mourned before and never would again.

_Eight_

Nerdanel was alone.

Not in the strictest sense of the word. After all, she lived with her father. Even after everything, she had friends here. People who thought of her as more than an extension of her husband—unlike said husband.

She rarely allowed herself to dwell on that. Turning a thing over in one’s mind, not resting, _what-ifs_ … that was what got them here. Instead, she mourned, she griefed, and she let go as much as one could.

Her work was still there. Lately, she had lost her taste for life-sized statues. They were too real. Nerdanel was often tempted to replace those she missed with every fiber of her soul with their stone counterparts, but she resisted. Her neighbors loved the smaller figures she dedicated her time to. They made for excellent gifts, an easy handful of beauty. She was welcome wherever she went.

It was a good life.

Sometimes, though, she walked out to a meadow in the woods. Watched the birds.

It was then that she wondered if she regretted the path that she had walked on. If she had known how it all turned out, would she have chosen to marry Curufinwë? To have seven incredible children, now doomed to die one by one?

(She had seen Nelya choosing fire. Worse than watching him die for reasons she could not yet fathom had been the relief on his face.)

The truth was: She didn’t know. She only knew that she had, and that it had begun right here, in this very meadow, with a strange boy and a strange girl.

At least the birds still sang.


End file.
